War Is Not A Picnic
by Synoran
Summary: When life treats you so fairly, it's a shame when you find everything to be a dream, waking up to war...


The Polish-Lithuanian war was a conflict shortly after WWI, concerning Vilnius. Occurring mainly in 1920, relations between the two nations were not immediately hostile, but got worse and worse as each side refused to compromise. Though the war ended in 1920, it fronted the Polish Ultimatum in 1938. The dream itself has many allusions to Międzymorze, which was meant to be a recreation of the Polish-Lithuanian commonwealth. The ending scene is also about the Battle of Warsaw. However, as it is a dream, all these references are jumbled and somewhat of an anachronism stew.

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The weather was perfect in Warsaw, the grasses lush and the skies free, the only clouds a pure, innocent white that promised nothing but sun. It shone through overhead trees' sparse branches, warming the grass in the field below. The heat was not overpowering in the least, just simple warmth that spread through Feliks' bones, the kind that gave promise of a perfect day beyond those he had remembered.

Things had been tough lately, yet with the atmosphere of euphoria he couldn't quite remember what it was. Something insignificant, he figured, for his senses were almost dulled, so overpowered with love.

He spread out the blanket beneath the shade, while Toris carried the basket with one hand, the other connected to the blond's. He smiled, one of his true rare ones, as he pulled the both of them down to take a seat, the slight wind whipping their hair.

Toris had cooked everything, a gesture that was completely unnecessary in Feliks' eyes, yet he was grateful all the same. He had cooked all his favorites, Žemaičių blynai, Kopytka, and oddly enough, Kūčiukai*. There must have been something he was trying to make up for, but why would Feliks even be mad in the first place? The way he smiled, he couldn't help but feel one creeping up his face as well, as they made idle chatter on that beautiful afternoon.

"I love you, Feliks," he said suddenly, after a long pause in conversation. Toris inched closer, pressing his lips to his. Feliks was taken by shock, his eyes wide before closing softly as he leaned in, wrapping a hand around the other's neck.

"I love you too," he whispered, unable for some reason to raise his voice. "You know I do…"

They sat intertwined, silent for what seemed like an eternity, but even eternity ends all too soon. It felt like a dream, the most gorgeous dream to Feliks, one which he was inevitably woken up from. Toris pulled away, his shove harsh. His torso tingled where his hands once lay, where they left with such haste. He opened his eyes with the feeling of disillusion, seeing his best friend backed against the tree. His eyes were a mix of fear, of distrust, and most importantly, hatred. Never had he seen such an emotion in him, let alone provoked from him.

"Toris?" He asked, his voice still too quiet to be normal. Too far away, even his own ears. Like a tunnel separated him from everything else.

"Why?" He cried, tears starting to stream down his face. "Why would you do this to me, Feliks? You have me! Isn't that enough?"

The voice that spoke out was not his own. It was far too controlling, too demon-like to belong to him. Too teasing. "You were going to leave me, Toris."

Toris shook his head furiously, the skies turning a dull gray where the sun once called home. "I wasn't!"

"Think about it," he replied, voice smooth yet underlined with cruel intent. "We could be together again, like we were so long ago! We were totally amazing, Liet. I just need this piece of you, think of everything we could be." Slowly, with hands that moved without his will, he reached in the basket for a gun, hiding it as best he could beneath his other palm.

However, he had already drawn his own. "This isn't right, Feliks. You know it isn't." With shaking hands, he pointed it straightforward, his aim promising to be steady despite his nerves.

"I thought we were friends," he replied, voice back to his normal tone.

"We are," he assured, lowering his gun. "Of course we are, never doubt that."

"I'm sorry," they said simultaneously, looking away. "I'm wrong."

They bridged the gap between themselves, locking lips once more. However, Feliks could not ignore the cool metal pressed to the small of his back, just as he moved the barrel of his own gun to Toris' soft, brown hair.

The ground shook with the force of the soldiers' disordered march across the land. Voices spoke around him, urgent and hushed. Though his eyes were closed, the sky was dark above his head, either the ceiling of the tent or a night stared with scars. _Perhaps the rain set in?_

He opened his eyes, expecting to still be in the fields of Warsaw, perhaps held in Toris' gentle arms, his cheek being stroke with care. Instead, he was greeted with a quickly deteriorating campfire, his soldiers either sitting around it or pacing the surrounding area. _A dream…_

"Sir!" One called, emerging from the trees to his left. Feliks shot up, immediately alert despite his heavy heart. "We captured one of the enemy."

He sprung to his feet, he and a few of his lower-ranking men following the solider into the clearing.

Toris was on his knees, held up by the wrists by two of the Polish men, a gun pressed to his head by a third. With Feliks' arrival, his head shot up, staring him straight in the eye with a look of terror splashed across his face.

'Save me,' he mouthed desperately, tears beginning to form in his eyes. 'Please…'

He turned away, unable to bear the sight of him. Images flashes through his mind, of the sunny, peaceful park, and the hushed confessions. Of fighting, reconciliation, and love.

But that was just a dream.

"Shoot him," he muttered, biting his lip. The bullet wouldn't kill him, but the damage would be done. Feliks would get the desired outcome, with the enemy being weakened.

"Feliks!" He screamed, throat dry. It was the last sound he heard before the firing of a gun. He tried desperately to ignore the tearing feeling plaguing his heart, the tears stinging his eyes. _For the good of everything,_ he kept telling himself.

The clouds opened up and began to cry upon Warsaw.

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* Kūčiukai is a traditional Lithuanian dish, which is usually served on Christmas Eve. They are delicate and hard to make, so in the case of the story, Toris was using it as a gesture to Feliks. In Polish historiography, the war only took place September through October of 1920, but according to Lithuanian historiography, it took place from Spring of 1919 to November 29th, 1920. If you follow the Lithuanian historians, it would have taken place over Christmas at one point, which was why Feliks was confused as to why he was serving it.


End file.
